


Slow Arrow

by lucadris



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:23:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7865509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucadris/pseuds/lucadris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cole sees; Cole grieves. (Translated from original Korean DA:I fanfic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Arrow

**Cole**

_Sh, shh._ Cole sat on the castle wall as he looked down upon the tents surrounding a bonfire. A young soldier was lying, her face pale. The lines of her features swayed and waned against the light. Someone handed her a bottle of brandy. _She doesn’t like brandy much,_ thought Cole. _She’s from Haven; her parents are farmers and she has three sisters older than her._ Cole tilted his head. _She likes hot apple cider and beer better than the brandy. She used to see a boy in secret, at a barn; he’s now lying under the snow._

The soldier grimaced as she brought the bottle to her mouth and swallowed. Cole could feel the dull ache as the glass met her front teeth. He licked his own in return.

A healer pushed a gag into her mouth. Cole listened to the _whoosh_ of the arrow that had flown into her arm; its whistle was still wrapped around her ears. _Sh, shh._ Cole mimicked the sound with his lips. Her arm, long past the point of saving, was swollen thick and purple. Another soldier brought a pail filled with hot water and some towels. The moment her eyes fell on the saw in the healer’s hand, the soldier began to scream. Other soldiers and Chantry priests fell upon her flailing limbs to keep them still. Tears streaked down, drawing ugly lines on the face crumpled like paper; a face still so young.

 _Shh._ Cole put a finger on his lips.

_It’s alright; be calm. Be calm._

The soldier fainted; only the sounds of the burning bonfire and the blade sawing the bone off remained. The treatment will be over quickly, just like the poisoned arrow that had flown towards her. Cole turned his head to the left and gazed at the fortress. A light shined from the Inquisitor Lavellan’s bedroom.

_Wait quietly, Inquisitor; he’s flying back slowly._

The light was soon gone.

 _Sh, shh._ Cole hugged his knees to his chest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Lavellan**

He hated the bitter tea; whenever he’d have to drink some to stave off the unwanted sleep, he’d let out an afflicted sigh and scowl his narrow eyes.

He ate little, but never turned down a drink. In fact, he kept a bottle of rare Orlesian whiskey hidden in his table drawers. After an incident when Lavellan stole it and drank herself silly, he’d clucked his tongue and drawn a line on the bottle to mark how much of the whiskey remained (Lavellan had once snuck in, drank the lot, then filled the bottle to the line with water as a petty revenge). He’d sometimes draw, read, or sip the whiskey if the mood struck.

His fingers untied the patterns of her braided hair; though he’d hesitated at first (“Do you really tie your hair _all on your own?”_ he’d asked) after few months he got used to the maze of braids. When Lavellan asked him to tie her hair up in the morning, he’d concentrate hard, as if twisting a rope together, and braid it meticulous and hard enough that her scalp ached.

Only Ellana Lavellan knew the sides of Solas that no-one else saw. He was polite to other companions, yet locked up tight; only when he was alone with her did he open up. Whenever Lavellan approached him, he relented as though he was giving in and showed her the pieces that had been hidden under the guise of a ragged apostate. He lifted the present and uncovered the past. Dead languages came back to life on his lips. In both the waking world and the sleeping one, they shared a secret; Lavellan felt exhilaration.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Cole**

_No; he is a slow arrow._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lavellan**

Then the Wolf swallowed her arm.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Cole**

When Lavellan came back from beyond the Eluvian, her face was pale and her arm was dead. Her left hand, that had once beheld the Anchor, was frozen open as if in an indication of subservience and beseeching; it wouldn’t move no matter what. Cassandra and the Iron Bull tried to make it feel again to no avail.

“He bit you because he loved you.”

Cole knew the looks they had shared between them, almost all the sweet nothings they had whispered to each other when they were skin-to-skin. Solas, once again, had wished to end it all; he’d ripped away the last scar that had wound the two of them together. A tender touch killed Lavellan’s arm–his hand recollecting the Anchor must have been more sensual and merciless than any other gestures he’d shown her before.

The Wolf must have known: that Lavellan, now a hunter, would chase him to the end.

“I thought I knew it all,” she spoke through the pale lips.

“He is a beast woken from its winter sleep,” said Cole, desperately. “All he’s left with are his fangs and his hunger. But he still tried his best.”

Lavellen met Cole’s eyes but neither agreed nor disagreed with his words. She walked ahead, leaning against the Iron Bull.

The surgeons of Winter Palace decided that the Inquisitor’s arm had to be cut off. As the blade of the saw chewed through her left arm, Lavellan cried out. Her entire body shook and her face was covered in sweat and tears. She needed a reason to scream, and Cole was powerless to take away her senses.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Solas**

It’s a common tale.

A small village is attacked by a gigantic wolf. The villagers’ prayer reaches not the most merciful and benevolent gods, but the ears of the most indifferent and dangerous one. Fen'Harel makes them a promise and shoots an arrow to the sky, but unhurriedly leaves the scene without doing anything else; betrayal is hidden in his heart like a sliver of ice. The wolf slaughters the people–the old, mothers, fathers, everyone who’s started to stink of sour age past their prime.

As the wolf opens its maw for the last remaining children, Fen'Harel’s arrow finally sinks down on its target; it pierces the wolf from its nose, through its mouth, shooting out from under its jaw, drawing a harsh line. Froth and blood splatter everywhere; the children survive.

It’s a rather common - albeit misleading - tale about Fen'Harel the Dread Wolf: the Traitor, the Schemer.

But Solas had a habit of following old misunderstandings and prejudices; one might have called it a fate.

He’d already snapped one arrow. Cole read the memory and grieved. Yet there were many arrows still left in his quiver so he shot away countless more.

Solas walked the road paved by the dead civilization, and what remained of it; as he walked he would start to reek of the sour age past his prime, and he would cover the stench with the smell of blood.

Perhaps then she would return to him–and pierce him from head to toe, elegant and nimble. She was his slow arrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Original work in Korean: http://getoutofkirkwall.postype.com/post/231324/


End file.
